Imagine
by Tristan-the-Dreamer
Summary: A post-DYIN fic. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Edit:** There is nothing like looking at who's been reading your story to be reminded that friends of Sherlock Holmes are all over the world. I'm deeply touched to see how people of many countries can enjoy stories together, and I'm very grateful for it all.

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His returning footsteps sounded at my bedroom door just as I washed my face—he hadn't said why he needed to leave a moment, probably left to scribble down reference notes.

"The yarders are learning their place at last, Watson," I chuckled, reaching blindly for the towel beside my basin. "When I told Inspector Morton of my plan, he gave a twist of his brows but held his tongue, an impressive feat for any man with official power." I studied my appearance in the mirror, towel at the ready to correct a missed spot.

Watson moved quietly in the reflection, setting something down on my bedside table.

I turned to see him arranging a few biscuits on a plate, then uncorking a bottle of claret. I set down the comb I had just picked up, and joined him by the side table. "But where is your glass? We must both celebrate!"

"Never mind, Holmes. Have a biscuit—and sit down, man, you look ghastly pale."

"More so, I imagine, since washing off the rouge."

He made a sound of acquiescence. "You really weren't confident enough in your costuming abilities to rely on them solely?"

"Unfortunately not, Watson." I passed him the biscuit plate. "I could risk no chance of you seeing through the disguise; for maximum effect I wanted to become as skeletal as possible, and then of course the effects of dehydration cannot be mimicked."

"I do hope you haven't done yourself permanent damage, Holmes. I—I insist you make a priority, tonight and tomorrow, of getting yourself rehydrated. Your simply must drink plenty of water."

"I assure you, no compellment is necessary," I said, feeling the sticky dryness of my mouth. I raised the glass of claret to my lips, watching him over the rim. "You haven't asked much about the case, or about Smith."

He nodded absently, the biscuit untouched in his hand. "You know Holmes, you said you were going to the police station. It might be best to talk later, after you've given them your help."

"So it would," I agreed slowly, setting down the glass and returning to my mirror. I picked up the comb, though my eyes were still on his reflection. He quietly replaced his biscuit on the plate, and sat on the edge of my bed, chin in hand. When he saw me looking at him in the mirror he straightened and smiled, and for the first time in living memory I could not, for the life of me, remember how a comb worked.

"Watson—would you be good enough to lay out some clothes for me? I'm a generous fellow when it comes to fame, and I'd rather some other deserving man get the laurels for being the first to appear at a police-station in a dressing gown."

I fumbled through the rest of my toilet and came to survey the outfit he'd laid on my bed; he was just smoothing out a silk tie. His fingers ran along the black edge.

I cleared my throat; he jumped and looked up at me with distant eyes. "Oh! sorry, sorry Holmes. Yes, I have it all ready for you, as you see—just finished—I'll step out while you change, and do eat a little more of your biscuit, at least." He spoke easily, and getting to his feet he left the room, shutting the door behind him.

I stood in the centre of the room, hands clasped behind my back, and listened to the sounds of London for a time; picking up the wine glass, I gave a silent toast for a case nearing completion, then dressed and left my room.

"Ready to go, Watson?" I was already reaching for my coat.

"Ah—before we go, Holmes, I—"

"Whatever it is, you can tell me in the cab, can't you. An honorable man keeps his word and I don't wish to be tardy. Let's pack up that infernal box and go outside."

"It's only I hoped…"

"There will be plenty of time in the cab to fill you in on the case," I assured him.

He nodded silently.

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Watson seemed to sit a little away from me in the cab. "The illness is not, as I originally said, contagious by touch," I broke the silence as we rattled through the foggy street. "Rather it is passed by contact through infected blood. That is why Smith was not afraid to shake me. He did me no harm; no permanent damage was done me by this episode, I assure you."

"It all works out for you, doesn't it?"

"It does indeed. Smith in chains, the Yard suitably impressed—the only downside will be having to be subject to another florid tale."

"And what makes you so certain I'll be chronicling this…'adventure'?"

"Ah! to be sure, I haven't told you the outstanding features. Well you see, Smith's nephew—"

"I don't care. That's to say, I'd rather hear later, Holmes, after I eat. You will eat too, won't you?"

"While your biscuits were delicious, I do think I could stand something more. I believe we should make a stop at Simpson's on our way home from the police station."

"To sign autographs, maybe, but not to eat," he said a little shortly. "You can't turn from a three-day fast and start eating normally. Biscuits are already pushing the boundaries of good sense; for the rest of the evening you must keep to simple things, like bread or soup."

"Well—I'm sure something on the menu will pass your medical standards."

Watson rested his chin on his hand as he looked out the window at the nebulous swirl of fog.

I felt it wise to say nothing further, for the duration of the ride to the Yard.

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My flair for the dramatic has a way of painting scenes in my mind. The newest scene—painted over the course of several days, the last three in fact—had been keeping me from going insane. As I lay in bed, miserably bored and with thirst clamoring louder and louder for my notice, I painted lovely images of how this was all going to end. Watson would be startled, then amazed at my iron determination to carry the thing out; we'd have a long, magnificent dinner at Simpsons, and I imagined the menu before my eyes—I read it over and over, tasting each item until I had exactly chosen what I should order.

I'd allowed my brain to tread over and over the same track, something I normally avoid, for the very reason I now faced: I simply could not leave the rut and accept the thought that he might prefer a different plan. I had decided everything right down to the drinks and appetizers, so it was not with obstinacy, but rather inevitability that I picked up the conversation as we were leaving the Yard, by reminding him that Simpsons did, after all, serve soups.

"Good. Have soup then," Watson said flatly.

"I will." We walked on fragile silence a few paces more. "And…what will you have?"

"Whatever Mary is serving."

"But…what about Simpsons?"

"If you want to make yourself sick by eating a full meal too soon, that's your business entirely. If it's no difference to you—and I'm sure it isn't—I'd like to have dinner with my wife."

The creeping, suspicious smoke that had been irritating my hopes burst into flames, and in the November evening I stood, as my fancies burned alive. "You are the most inconsiderate man I know." Of a sudden, I found it necessary to lean rather more heavily on my walking stick.

He turned smartly to face me. "I _beg_ your pardon?"

"Certainly you could have made someeffort to accommodate my wishes." My voice sounded strange to me, and I felt a ringing in my ears.

Watson gave me a sharp look. "Are you going to faint?"

"I'm not entirely sure."

He dragged me to the nearest bench; that part is a little blurry in my memory, but anyhow, when we'd sat, he instructed me to put my head down so the blood would rush to my brain. I nearly fell off the seat, but he caught me and held me steady until the spell passed. There was something horribly stiff and cold about him, and I struggled to sit up as soon as I possibly could.

Watson picked my hat off the ground and brushed it off slowly.

Damp leaves fell to the cobblestones, and then he was handing the hat back. My hand had a tremor as I reached to take it, I cursed silently. I had been a fool to think I could so easily shake off the effect of three days' fast; I knew in my heart I had to go back to bed. I was on the verge of blacking out. "All right, Watson. Take me home, and then have your dinner."

I dozed a little on the cab ride, blinking awake in confusion as the cab pulled to a halt. "Where is this?"

"I took you home."

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To be continued


	2. Chapter 2

When I'd imagined this evening during those miserable three days, I had furnished the vision with sparkling water, witty conversation and a good deal of praise for my determination and valor. Nowhere—absolutely nowhere—had I included wearing a borrowed nightshirt, lying in the Watson's guestroom bed and stealing miserable glances at my friend, who catching up on paperwork at the little table by the window. He had poured me a tall glass of water and I was sipping it.

"Glad to see you drinking plenty of water," Watson remarked, glancing up from scribbling.

For some reason that made me angry and I put down the glass; but a dull ache in my head drove the memory of why I was angry away, and I drained the last few swallows, sipping the drops that beaded the rim.

"Shall I fill it again?"

"If you like," I said carelessly.

He gave me a look as he picked up the carafe. "It really doesn't make a difference?"

"Well, certainly I'm a bit thirsty; I just think it's too bad your work is disrupted by pouring water. If I was in my own room I could get water for myself with no trouble to anyone."

"If you were in your own room, you'd be too weak to get anything for yourself," he replied steadily, pouring the drink and returning to his work. "Three days with neither food nor water takes a grave toll on the body, Holmes."

I was struggling to formulate a response, when a knock came at the door.

"John? I've some toast for Mr. Holmes."

"I don't want toast."

"Hush," Watson said sternly over his shoulder, reaching for the door. "Thank you Mary, it's kind of you. I'll join you in the sitting room in just a moment, and then you'll show me your new project?"

"I'd like that, John." (Though I could not see her face, I knew she was smiling.) "I left off the butter." Her voice lowered a touch. "It's—it's nothing serious? You're sure he'll be all right?"

"Yes, quite fine, I'm sure. I'll be straight down."

He leaned forward and gave her a peck on the cheek.

"Stop making faces," he admonished me, coming back in with the plate. "She's my wife, after all. Here, eat a little."

"What is her new project?" I asked in spite of myself, setting the plate on my lap.

"She loves to knit scarves, and presently she's learning a new type of stitch. A tricky one, apparently. Do you know, she's hoping to sell the scarves eventually, once she masters the technique. Here, I'll put the carafe by your bed."

"A female entrepreneur—it's unheard of."

"That's my Mary," Watson said proudly, tidying his stack of papers and turning to leave. "Now, Holmes, I will check on you again before I go to bed; I'm just going downstairs to chat with Mary, I haven't seen her much today." He seemed to fight against adding to that sentence; and then looking up, he said with false brightness, "So eat a little toast, and keep drinking water. All right?"

I avoided his gaze.

The door shut quietly as he left.

I nibbled at the crust for a time, gaze wandering the room. There was a mirror on the wall across from me; I couldn't see my reflection but I remembered his, and the untouched biscuit. I chewed slower, wishing the events of the past hours would stop spinning in my head so I could analyze them properly. The happy laughter floating from the sitting room didn't help—in fact, when it came again I dropped the plate of toast on the floor and rolled over, clenching my jaw against the unfamiliar smell of the blankets.

The light from the gas lamp flickered gently on the wall; I gazed at the illuminated wallpaper beside me and absently traced my fingertip along the seam between papering strips. The seam was newer than the papering in my room at Baker Street, and had a tooth to it that was obtrusive to abstract thinking.

Confound it! Wasn't it common sense that a fatigued man wants his own familiar quarters to rest in? Yet Watson had taken me here without any sort of consent, taking advantage of my weakened state; I had been completely unable to protest. It all boiled down to a simple fact: if I wanted something, I should certainly get it. Good lord, I'd been a good sport about not going to Simpsons, hadn't I?

Too late, I realized I was working myself into a splitting headache. Pain and pride kept me from dressing and going downstairs to ask Watson for medicinal help, and when he came in later I feigned sleep. He quietly checked my pulse, turned down the gas and left the room.

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To be Continued


	3. Chapter 3

**Edit: **Unexpectedly I find I won't be able to complete this for a few more days at least. KCS and BCB have both written excellent post-DYIN stories, so check them out if you're in need of closure! I will finish this, but I simply can't at the moment. Apologies.

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I woke in late morning; I realized my headache had left, which I was glad of; I should have been still more glad if my strength had been returned in exchange. As it was I proved shaky on my feet, and buttoning my shirt was harder than it should have been. Still, after a glass of water and a little of last night's toast, I ventured downstairs. The sitting room was pleasant enough, but I felt very much out of place and began searching for something to occupy my mind.

The bookshelves yielded saccarine drivel on the one hand, and tomes that were both physically and mentally too weighty for me to take on at the moment, so I turned to rifling through some old letters I found tucked between books, in a blue and yellow envelope. Amorous moods seemed to have a detrimental effect on my friend's spelling, and I marked the worst errors with a pencil stub before putting the letters back. Finally I sank down on a little couch-- leaping up when I recalled the couple most likely sat there--and removed myself to an armchair.

I had not been sitting long when Mrs. Watson entered; she seemed pleased to see me up and about, and asked if I wanted anything to eat. It appeared I had slept through breakfast, and so she brought me a little plate of fruit. "John told me you must be careful what you eat, for a few days more," she said, and glanced up the stairs fretfully. "He didn't sleep very well last night."

"Oh?"

"Yes, so after breakfast he said he wanted to nap. Wants to be fresh for his patients this afternoon, I imagine. Do eat, Mr. Holmes, you're so terribly thin...oh yes! John said you must drink water too, shall I bring you some?" Without waiting for an answer, she fluttered out like a moth and soon returned with a glass.

I didn't much feel like talking. I suppose she perceived this, for with a few kind and polite words, she took her leave, still with a moth-like grace.

Her husband made a somewhat less impressive entrance soon after, as he sluggishly descended the stairs. He leaned so heavily on the banister that it squeaked under his hand, and it took him a moment to register my presence. "'Morning." After he'd sank down in a chair, he glanced at the sunrays that bent themselves over furniture, and added, "Or rather, good afternoon."

"Quite. Would you like a slice of fruit?"

"No thanks, I breakfasted already. Are you feeling better today?"

"Yes, thank you. I'm sure I can go home after lunch."

"We'll see how you're feeling then."

There followed a strained and uncomfortable silence as we watched dust motes. I wished the motes could play the strings of sunlight like a harp, to break the quiet. I wished he would leave the room.

"Oh yes," he said of a sudden. "Morton came over early today, said that Culverton Smith is under lock and key and will surely be proved guilty." Watson paused. "He said to give you his congratulations."

"Ah, that's kind of him."

Watson's gaze was obliquely on the floor, but he seemed to be looking into a great abyss. "You never got to telling me, what last night was all about. What Smith's crime was."

"That's right. Shall I tell it now? Well, Smith's nephew was in a position to inherit an impressive sum. Smith was next-in-line, and—well Watson, it's the old trouble of loving money more than fellow man. I spoke out on the evidence of a murder, and in return Smith sent me the pretty little box to silence me. But we needn't worry about him any longer; as Morton implied, there's no chance in the world he'll be acquitted. Not with the box as evidence, and you as a witness."

"Yes, that's the one thing that was clear to me last night."

"With your account, the evidence is complete against him."

Watson digested the information, then looked to me with a level gaze. "Why was I the only one left out of the plan?"

His words had an uncomfortable weight and density to them. I half wanted to loosen my tie. "I needed Smith to be impressed as to the severity of my illness--it was of paramount importance that he be convinced I was dying. And you're--you're not a very good actor, Watson."

He forced a smile. "No, I've never been good at deception. Not like most people."

"Now just one minute, Watson."

"Why do you have to keep deceiving me?"

I shifted in the chair. "I don't do it...so very often."

"Maybe not, but the point is you _keep doing it, _Holmes, and it's wearing me down. Of the thousand natural shocks I get in life, you're responsible for--for seven hundred of them, at least! And I suppose you plan on going through with these little enactments until the worms get out their napkins?"

"Oh Watson! save that for your writing. I'd prefer my appetite remain unspoiled by florid—"

"Don't even start on that. Don't even start! The insanity of you lecturing me for being overly dramatic, when you—" he motioned desperately. "What am I to say, Holmes, what would you have me do? Shall I put the whole matter behind me?"

I turned the apple slice over in my hands. "That would be ideal, yes."

"You can't even begin to imagine what shock I'm still in, can you."

"It will wear off, I'm sure. Really, Watson, you're too sensitive for your own good. I'm neither dead nor dying; there is no need to cling to these dramatic thoughts."

"_Cling? _Holmes, I want to forget...but I simply cannot. You may not deal with emotions, you may not like them, but can you try to understand, just for a moment? When I thought you were going to die, everything changed inside me. Everything. My life was different, I stepped through a door and the colours were gone. I thought it was all over. And for you to snap your fingers and say, it's all a joke! And expect me to—"

"It wasn't a _joke,_ Watson, it was—"

"Let me finish," he said angrily. "I don't care what it was for, the point is—the point…" he groped for words. "Maybe you can switch like magic between mindsets and beliefs and deceptions, but I can't! I can't become my old self again, that self is gone. I believe I lost five years off my life when I saw you slipping away from me."

"Can't you drop that? Don't you see, without the malingering Culverton Smith would be going free."

His back was to me now, and he stood that way for several minutes. My palms were feeling a bit damp. When he looked round at last, his eyes were hard.

"There are innumerable criminals afoot in the world, Holmes. And I can tell you without doubt, quite certainly, that if it's your intention to land every one of them behind bars, and if you plan on using me freely for the duration of your career, without any consideration for my wellbeing, I will have a complete breakdown."

"But--"

"Doesn't your presumption have any limits whatsover? I know myself, and I know this is too much for me to handle; but I suppose it's too much of me to think you'd care about Holmes, this is what you repay friendship with--deception and apathy? I've taken my share of knocks from readers and critics who call me a lapdog, I've shrugged it off because I knew the truth, but maybe I was wrong! Maybe I was wrong, Holmes. Do you feel entitled to play on my sympathy and affection for you?"

"Watson...!"

He glared at me, breathing heavily, and I saw he did not regret his words. "I'm…I must go, I must calm down before it's time for my patients. They don't need my problems interfering with the care I give them." He grabbed his hat and took his leave.

I stared straight before me, the slam of the front door seeming to go on forever. A problem? That's what I was, a problem that interfered with his work? And after all, why not---I got shakily to my feet and began treading uncertainly about on the carpet. Why hadn't I faced it before? To myself, I was everything. But to him... I was a blight on his life and a blister on his home, a deuced irritation that no one wanted to touch. I'd had enough.

I was going home.

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To Be Continued


	4. Chapter 4

I went back upstairs to make up the bed. I wanted to leave no trace I had been there, no mess to tidy. When I smoothed the blankets and sheets, I found myself rather tired, and decided to lie down just for a moment, to catch my breath. The coverlet was so soft beneath me, and I closed my eyes. Maybe I could rest for just a minute or two…

"Holmes."

I opened my eyes and found the room considerably darker. "Did…have I slept all day?"

"Yes, I'm sure you needed it. I wouldn't have woken you, only it's nearly dinner and I want you to eat something with us. It should be ready in about half an hour, plenty of time for you to refresh yourself."

"Your hair's wet," I noticed, sitting up and smoothing the wrinkles from my waistcoat.

"Hm? Yes, I went to the gymnasium for a bit after my rounds. Oh and that's the other thing I was going to say," he said absently. "I stopped by Baker Street and brought some of your things. I imagined you'd want a fresh collar and cuffs, at the least, also I brought a few of your casebooks and a chemistry text. It's all in the carpet bag there."

"Thanks," I said after a stiff pause. "But about dinner…I'm not very hungry."

"Neither am I, really."

I was a little more alert now and as I watched him, I noticed in the fading light that his face…had no life in it. Neither did his actions. "Well, um, how was your exercise? I didn't know you went to the gym often."

"I don't."

"Then—"

"I should let you freshen up. I'll see you downstairs for dinner." He paused at the door. "It's roast chicken, so it should be easy on your stomach."

Once I was alone, I changed my collar and cuffs.

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"Mr. Holmes, you're still a bit peaked. Do sit down."

My attention was taken up with convincing Mrs. Watson that I was _not _about to collapse, and by the time I realized I was seated directly across from Watson, it was impossible to tactfully move seats. Watson was looking down, taking great pains in unfolding his napkin.

I did likewise, managing it so by the time I had finished tucking my napkin in my waistcoat, it was time to eat and I could focus my attention on the food.

"Well, shall we say grace?" Mrs. Watson asked, when the servant had finished bringing out the chicken. "I think we have a lot to be thankful for," and she squeezed her husband's hand with an expectant smile. "Dear?"

"Ah…yes." Watson cleared his throat, fidgeted and finally bowed his head. He was a long time before speaking. "Father, I thank you for our food, and for the sunshine today. Help us to do your will, and…thank you for showing us forgiveness."

I looked up sharply when he had finished, but he evaded my gaze, hurriedly asking Mary if she preferred dark or white meat.

"Dark, please, John. Yes I was so glad when I saw the sun this morning. It's been so gloomy lately, and when it's foggy out—well, it's harder to be cheery. Now John, you're certain Mr. Holmes can eat this? I would be so embarrassed if you became ill from something I served," she explained, turning to me with a worried smile. "And of course I don't want you to get any sicker. Oh my goodness," and she paused, her eyes filling up in a moment that perfectly illustrated the unpredictability of females. "Mr. Holmes, I was so afraid when we got the news you were ill. I was so scared."

"It's all right, Mary, he's fine," Watson said softly, patting her hand. "He's quite all right now."

"I know, but—" she wiped at her eyes. "But it was so terrible when we thought you might die, Mr. Holmes! It was so terrible, I didn't know what to do or think. Even John was afraid."

"Now, dear," Watson began in an embarrassed voice.

"But John, you were! When you ran for your hat and coat, you took _my_ hat off the peg, don't you remember, and switched it for your bowler just in time. I prayed a good deal for you, Mr. Holmes."

"It was a bad fright for everyone, I imagine," I said slowly.

"Yes, oh, it was. And if the world were to lose you--it's true, isn't it true, John, the world wouldn't be as good without Mr. Holmes? You help so many people, and John always feels cheered when he gets a telegram from you, even if he can't go on your adventures sometimes." She paused, collecting herself and flushing a bit. "Well, I don't mean to be silly. Of course it's all over now and you're getting better, I should be sensible."

"Holmes is being quite sensible," Watson remarked, "he's starting to eat."

"And it's delicious," I said, which it was, though it felt a little strange at first to have something so solid in my stomach. "My complements. And, of course, the taste of a roast chicken is spoiled unless it's carved just so."

"Is it really, Holmes?"

"Quite. So my complements to you as well, Watson."

For a moment he almost smiled at me.

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To be Continued

A/n: Well, this story's coming along fine, isn't it? :)


	5. Chapter 5

A/n: Here is the last chapter. Thank you for all the kind reviews. ^^

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My iron constitution was making a fighting return, and I was able to sit up a little while in the sitting room after dinner. Mrs. Watson gave me a blanket to put over my legs, and Watson surrendered the most comfortable spot on the sofa. We passed half an hour in that way, speaking little and listening to the click of knitting needles. When my head began to droop a bit, I thought it best to retire to my room and, folding the blanket, I bid them a good night and stepped to the stairs.

"Holmes, one moment." Watson lay aside his book and got to his feet. "I'd like to give you a quick exam before you go to bed, make sure you're convalescing properly. Mind if I come upstairs with you?"

"Not at all," I said easily.

He gave me a few minutes to change to my nightshirt and dressing gown, so that I might be comfortable while he checked my health. It was a small thing, but I appreciated it. I sat on the edge of the bed while he checked my pulse, temperature and reflexes. Then he pinched the back of my hand and looked at it intently.

"What the deuce are you doing?"

"Testing the elasticity of your skin; a dehydrated person's skin stays bunched after you pinch it. Yours needs improvement but it's a long way from the worst. Let me pour you another glass of water. I know you must be tired of having it poured down your throat," he added apologetically, fetching a glass, "but you've got to replenish yourself." He gave me the glass, and patted my shoulder in an odd way. It wasn't cold, but neither was it particularly…real.

He walked toward the door and I thought he was going to leave, but he turned back and settled into a figure-eight pattern about the room, walking slowly, absently, pausing only to straighten things that were not crooked. "Three days, Holmes. The absolute limit a man can go without water. Lord, no one can deny you'll suffer for a cause!"

"Thank you."

"How the deuce did you manage it—I mean, how did you control your thirst? Any other man would have given in to a swallow or two from the sink."

"Ah, yes, I made provisions for that. I had a trick for myself—a mind game." I settled back against the pillows, watching his bemused face with delight. At last!—my accolades and laurels were in sight.

"A mind game," Watson repeated slowly. "What sort?"

"Well it's all motivation, you see. I had to make a goal for myself, something I could only have after the case was complete. I chose dinner at Simpsons, and from the moment I took to bed I used this destination as encouragement." I felt no little dark satisfaction at Watson's squirm. "The first day with no nourishment, I allowed myself to imagine going to Simpson's, but only as far as the appetizers."

"What does that…?"

"Well, it means I could imagine everything, absolutely everything, but only until we had the appetizers and were eating them. And then I had to wait until the next day for the main course."

"So I was there, in your imaginings."

"Naturally."

Watson nodded slowly, rubbing his chin. "Can you remember, Holmes, before we went to Simpsons, when we were just standing about Baker Street—if, in fact, your vision started so early—what did I say to you, when you revealed you'd been feigning illness?"

I laughed through a stiff smile, and shrugged.

"I would venture a guess," he continued, after a time, "that I acted rather differently in your mind than I did in reality."

"Well—not even my mind can predict the future _perfectly. _Perhaps there were some differences, yes." I tried to be there again, in my vision, him and me, toasting my success…but I couldn't see it. It all seemed flat.

Watson cleared his throat. "How about I take a turn now."

"A turn?"

"Yes, I will tell you my own imaginings." He drew up a chair and spoke evenly. "When I left to fetch Smith, I spent the cab ride picturing your funeral. I wore a black coat, I had a black armband around my left arm, and I carried my bowler. I was in the carriage to your funeral, for I believed you were dead."

"But you'd just seen me—"

"I saw you, yes; thin and feverish, delirious. And when I went down the stairs of the flat, as your crazed chanting fell out of hearing, you died to me. You must understand that Holmes, you died to me. I went through the actions of saving you, to carry out your last wish. Because I always do what you want, Holmes. You know that."

"Yes," I said faintly, grasping for the water glass. "I know that."

"When I saw the fresh grave, I felt revulsion that something so common had come to pass on you, and I cried a little, in the cab. In my vision I had a flower to lay on the grave; it was a rose, and I thought how you would have liked it, in your own way, but you were dead. I was so…angry, that I hadn't been there when you died. I thought maybe, there was something I could have done--maybe I could have saved you." He was far away.

"It...it wasn't my plan that you should suffer such visions, Watson."

He laughed in a way that frightened me. "What visions did you think I'd have, sugarplums?" He leaned forward. "Understand: every time you feign serious illness, I have to believe it's true. Because if one day you're really ill, and I think you're malingering and choose to, for instance, take care of Mary, or a patient, and if you should die alone because of that--afraid, in pain--I couldn't call myself a doctor anymore. Nor a man, nor a friend. My life would be over."

I watched the sun's reflected flare on the mirror.

"When you were in my room--walking about, you know...and you went to the mantle..."

"And picked up the box..."

"Yes. When I saw that, I was afraid, Watson. I thought you were going to open it, I thought you were going to die. And...it would be my fault. And all I wanted in the world...was for you to put down the box. That's all I could think of. And...confound it..."

"What's wrong?"

"My head...aches a bit."

"I'll get a powder," he said, getting up at once.

I was alone in the quiet room for a few minutes, alone with my pain. And then I heard a clinking, and footsteps.

"Right, this should help with the pain; you're going to have to sit up a bit to drink it, though."

Resigning myself, I shifted my position, though the movement intensified the throbbing. I finished adjusting myself as Watson gave a last stir, tapped the spoon on the rim and handed me the glass. I drank the bitterness down quickly, hoping it would take effect soon. I glanced at him--he was still a little distant, but there was kindness in his eyes. When he reached to take the glass, I hesitated. "Watson--"

"Here, let me have that, old fellow. You should get under the blankets, get some rest."

"Thanks. I wanted to say, though--"

"What is it, Holmes?" He gently pried the glass from my fingers.

"Last night--last night, you see, I...well I…well, I was only pretending to be asleep."

He set the glass aside, turning back to me with a gentle, slightly sad smile. "Oh Holmes, I knew that. Your pulse was too fast for a sleeping man, even one whose health had been taxed. But if you didn't want to talk, I wasn't going to force you. Can you sit forward just a bit? You don't need all those pillows to sleep, do you. There we are, much more conducive to a good night's rest. Is the pain lessening?"

I lay quietly, drawing the blankets around my shoulders. "Yes, some. I appreciate...Watson, I never doubted you as doctor, you know. General practitioner you may be, but they don't come any better. You know…I always thought medicine was a perfect match for you. You see things before others do, you stand on your convictions…"

"The pain will pass," he said quietly, after my words had stumbled into silence. He lay his hand on my forehead--I was only startled for a moment--and with the pads of his fingers and thumb he gently rubbed the pained muscles on the sides of my head. "Thanks, by the way, for the compliment," he added awkwardly. "It—I was badly hurt, when I thought you doubted me. But that's over now, that's over now," he said hurriedly—I think he'd felt my jaw tense. "Yes, now I know the truth." He continued rubbing my forehead, which helped with the pain a good deal.

When his hand had moved more to the back of my head, when all I could see was the inside of my eyelids and all I felt was a bitter sorrow, I spoke his name. The room filled with an almost sacred silence and I spoke into it, like a spell I did not understand, hoping it would bring the right results.

"I'm...I'm sorry. I gave you a terrible scare, endangered your life—I'm very sorry, Watson, and I won't do it again."

His hand stilled. "Won't do what again?"

The sun's reflection had edged off the mirror.

"No more tricks, Watson. It's beneath us, it's beneath…"

"A friendship."

"It's beneath us," I repeated with a sigh.

He looked at me, and I saw he was here, quite here, no trace of distance in his eyes, here was Watson. He spoke at length what we might do tomorrow, even if I should still be convalescing, and he advised me to begin mulling what colours I liked best, as Mary would no doubt begin knitting a scarf for me in the morning. Indeed I think the only reason he stopped speaking was that his voice went hoarse.

I did think about colours, once he had bid me goodnight and gone downstairs. I thought of worlds where the colour had gone, I thought how expensive it is to repaint things...and I whispered to myself _how strange it is...I always fancied myself black, grey, brown. And here...I was all the colours. I was everything._

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